Aggrovigliati Studio
by medcat
Summary: A conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft, near the end of Sherlock's Hiatus. A story by "The Big and Fat Flittermouse", translated by me.


**A/N:** This story is by "The Big and Fat Flittermouse" from a Russian language fanfiction site holmesecret dot ru. The site has, unfortunately, gone down earlier this summer and remains down. This was one of the few stories I'd especially liked on that site, so I'd translated it and decided to post it here for your viewing pleasure.

The title means "a difficult etude" in Italian.

* * *

"_I remember, I will gaze at the horizon._

_At the point where the sea merges with the sky,_

_After all, I have something_

_That will always remain unchangeable."_

"Fleur", "Horizon"

I like France for its quiet evenings with a note of romantic mood mixed with them. The mild sunsets of Italy also suit me, just as pensive Tibetan landscapes do. And I still like the pure clean air of Swiss mountains, despite everything. But, even surrounded by all this beauty, I want so badly to be in an entirely different place, a different city and a different country from where I am now. How does that saying go? Faraway fields are always greener?

The sun has smoothly moved down past the horizon and the quiet warm evening has fully come into its own. Strange, evenings are often like this here, but I still can't get used to them, and for some reason, I constantly feel chilled. And not as if I were outside during winter, but as if I were sitting constantly in some extremely uncomfortable draft, which is practically invisible but can be felt in every other way.

I miss the other evenings desperately. The ones that will never come again. At least, I don't think they will. And I'm very good at thinking. In any case, those around me believe that to be true. The only thing is, lately I greatly doubt it actually is.

The woven armchair in which I sit is very light, but, at the same time, quite sturdy. The craftsman had made it in such a manner that anybody who decided to relax in it would be as comfortable as possible. And I _am_ comfortable. Very much so. But, no offense to the skilled artisan, I wish to sit in a very different armchair. The usual plush kind, with a slightly worn back, which is carefully covered with an afghan or a knitted lacy doily. And not at all on the low terrace, watching the setting of the heaven's luminary, but in the cozy dusk of the room, gazing at the shadows dancing on the wall or watching the tongues of flame disporting themselves in the fireplace.

My arm still aches. Not as badly as it did just after what happened, of course, but still, it's not very pleasant. Although I would prefer the most horrible pain in my injured arm to a brief headlong flight to who knows where. The flight with a lethal outcome. With an indubitably lethal outcome.

The ash from the cooled-off cigarette flutters down onto my lap and I carelessly brush it off. Damn! That hurt. It seems that I truly did underestimate my condition...I shall note that for the future.

"Still bothering you, is it?" Oh good heavens, one more trick like this and I won't be responsible for what I do!

"Do you always creep up so quietly?"

"Did I startle you? I am sorry, I didn't want to do that, at all...I just didn't think..."

"You never think."

Why did I say that? Did it just come out by itself? He does nothing else but think and consider. But what about? That's a deep dark secret.

"You know that is not true."

"Well, of course," I admit, "and you vouchsafed coming to such a godforsaken area only to hear me say that?"

"Very kind of you, I'm sure. Although in actuality, it's not like that at all. And we are not in a godforsaken area, although the house you had chosen is located rather far from the city itself."

"I like the suburbs. They are not as bustling."

"Next thing you're going to tell me is that when you reach old age, you will definitely move to the country."

"Uh-huh," I throw the cigarette stub into the old ceramic ashtray. Cigarettes will never be a satisfactory substitute for my usual ritual-they run out too quickly. "I shall definitely start keeping chickens, plant flowers next to my house, and go to church every Sunday without fail. What else did I forget that is needed for a pastel-coloured idyll?"

My conversation partner is silent. Highly unusual. I expected lectures and condescending sermons, but they didn't follow. Has something changed?

"And I shall also start keeping bees. Several hives. Can you imagine?"

"No."

"Neither can I."

"What's happening to you?"

I wish I knew...

"I have never seen you in such a mood." A very cautious remark. Naturally, what if I bristle again?

"Enjoy it then. Who knows when you will have such an opportunity again." My icy self-possession, having basely conspired with my much-praised imperturbability, politely bow to me before their departure after such a worthy response.

I can understand perfectly well that he truly is worried about me, but I simply cannot help it. How odd, I had never imagined that his care would get on my nerves so much. Nerves...My best friend altogether believes, or, rather, used to believe (I must get accustomed to speaking in the past tense), that I have no nerves. And no heart either.

He does not tell me (hadn't told me, I correct myself immediately) about his second thought, but it is truly quite unnecessary. And always was. I am able to (used to be able to...I never thought it would be so difficult to use the past tense in speech) read his thoughts as if they were an open book: with glossy white paper and clear large print in full daylight. Sometimes, it is true, it is missing some of the diagrams, but I can easily sketch them in myself.

No heart? Well then, I wish it were actually true. I tried so very hard to accomplish my intent. And I had been successful at it for quite a long time. Until the present moment.

"Do I annoy you so much?"

"Am I thinking aloud?" I snort just like an angry hedgehog.

"No," the smile touches the edge of his lips slightly, "you had never thought aloud. It's simply that when you are thinking of personal subjects, you always frown a little and unconsciously lay one hand on top of the other. Like this." My brother's right hand covers his left.

"Bravo. I never doubted your abilities in the slightest."

"It was not difficult."

"I never doubted your power of observation either," I decide to strike preemptively. I want to utter enough insults, barbed remarks, and reproaches to make my brother go away and leave me in peace. And I really do want to return to my flat. At least there, nobody pesters me with edifying conversations. The elderly landlady doesn't count.

I do not want to talk-my throat goes dry immediately and I am always thirsty. And thirsty not for this warm herbal infusion I can hardly stand drinking anymore, but for hot strong black coffee with cream, or for pure iced water. The last three days I seem to be going from one extreme to another; I suppose it must be the effect of this accursed fever I had contracted who knows when. I also very badly want to smoke in my usual way, but I cannot do that either. I have to bear with it-I must maintain appearances.

"Are you cold?"

Once again, I pretend I'd not heard the solicitous question. He is saying something else, but I am diligently pretending that I am gazing at the landscape and cannot hear anything, but my conversation partner cannot be deceived that easily. Most unfortunate.

There is nothing else I can pay attention to, besides the conversation and the weather. The weather here is rarely bad, but I keep reminiscing about the weather, the most nasty and disgusting kind, that I could often observe out of the sitting-room window: dense fog and drizzle. So as not to listen, I start considering when it would rain or get foggy here.

"Are you still angry at me?"

I am still pretending to be extremely interested in the state of the evening horizon.

"What is the matter?" God in heaven, if he is going to add his usual patronizingly condescending attitude, I shall simply kill him! But apparently he guesses at my train of thought and refrains from doing it.

"Nothing. Don't pay it any mind, I had looked worse in the past."

"I was not referring only to your physical condition."

"Why, is something wrong with me? Does my condition not fit into your measured way of life? Don't be concerned, I am not likely to die of the common cold."

"Of the fever," my elder brother corrects me. "Shall I bring you an afghan?"

"I am not cold," I reply indifferently and immediately inadvertently shiver.

"You contradict yourself, brother mine," my brother chuckles at my reaction.

"How so?" As if I would never figure it out myself.

"How so? For instance, in that, according to your statement, you never think about people. You had always been interested only in the correct solution to one case or another, and not the emotions of those involved in the events, as far as I recall. So why are you considering the consequences of your actions now?"

An excellent shot. He'd parried it well. Right on target. Straight at the heart. Ah, yes...I don't have a heart, do I. You are not at all concerned about what is happening with me, are you?

I keep silent. I am waiting for him to continue his remarks.

"Am I right?" Why is he asking about the obvious? "You can try to run away from yourself as much as you like, my boy, but it won't help you."

"I am not running away."

"Certainly. You are only tactically retreating."

"Not at all. Can't you understand that I cannot allow myself to take risks anymore?"

"You had never thought about that before. What has changed?"

"I am not talking about myself." It turns out that to nonchalantly wave your hand in farewell when you don't know what the next minute will bring is far easier than to endure this edifying conversation.

"Oh yes?" he leans back in his armchair. "That is commendable...However, you forget that your good doctor had buried you in the waterfall some years ago."

"Shut up, Mycroft!"

"Pfui, how rude of you, sir!"

"Those who are dead can let themselves be impolite...So shut up. Please." I close my eyes. It is easier to control one's emotions that way.

"Listen," an unusually mild voice sounds above my ear and warm hands cautiously lower themselves onto my shoulders, "I can understand your doubt perfectly well, I understand that, for you, it is much easier to risk yourself than your friends..."

"Friends?" I reiterate quietly, "you know, there was only one friend...I had."

"Why are you using the past tense?"

"Because I died! Because I allowed myself to stage that foolish performance with the waterfall! Because I must still continue to fool Moran! Because I must be considered dead, and that causes pain to other people! And because..."

"...because you would like very much to return? It would be better if you remained here for some time."

"And what if I don't intend to remain here any longer?"

"Why?"

"I don't like to bother people."

"Ah. So that's how it is...Nonetheless, you do it all the time."

"Do what?"

"Cause trouble for people."

"Only if they spoil my life."

"Am I spoiling your life?" he quietly inquires.

"Pardon me, what...?"

"Which of us three has spoiled your life?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, Mr Holmes, you have understood what I meant perfectly well."

I try to twist away from his hands, but Mycroft never gives in so easily.

"Before coming here, I went to your flat in London," says he, not letting me jump up from my seat. "I can tell you that everything has remained the same there."

Oh God...I am no longer trying to push his hands off me. Three years...And everything has remained in its place.

Now I feel as if I had returned to my childhood, when one breaks the favourite family vase and is afraid to confess to one's mother. And afraid not at all because of the punishment, but because mother will certainly be upset.

"Your good landlady is keeping all your things," my brother continues, "and, when I sat down in your armchair, I was asked to get up."

"And did you?" Mycroft absently strokes my shoulder. The one that is not injured.

"You'll not believe it," he laughs, "but yes, I did."

I suddenly calm down completely and stop behaving like a spoilt schoolgirl. My brother now very much reminds me of how he used to be, long ago, when I was a child. More open, less sophisticated, more solicitous.

"It is a very complicated etude, Mycroft," I sigh, "and I am afraid I have mixed up all the sheet music in it."

"You are a good musician, Sherlock. A very good one. And because of that, you will succeed," he finally releases me from his embrace and returns to his seat. "I am certain of it."

"Why?" I enquire.

"Well," a smile touches the corners of his mouth once again, "that is why I am the elder brother, right? And now, I am listening."

"What?"

"Don't give me that innocent look, Sherlock. Your acting skills have no effect on me. You were planning to return in any case, right? And, brother dear, do not think that I shall believe your decision was a spontaneous one. Tell me what your plan is."

"What if I say that I have no plan...?"

"And are you visiting the sculptor for no particular reason...?"

"Touche!" I assume a very guilty expression.

"Did you think I would simply allow everything to proceed however it would? Curse you, Sherlock, for a few infernal days I really thought that you had perished!"

I realise that the servant of Her Majesty is speaking the absolute truth, and I am no longer inclined to let others play along blindly. Never again.

The conversation grows long, and the hands of the clock are inexorably creeping towards midnight.

"I would like to offer you to live with me for a time. What do you think about that?"

"I am in agreement. Is that your only correction?"

"I think so. Will you see me out?"

We descend from the terrace and walk to the gate through the small garden. The first stars are already coming out in the sky, and a cool breeze blows down from the mountains.

Mycroft comes out into the street. I remain standing in the gate, watching him. Suddenly, my brother turns around.

"Tell me, are you going to continue playing your music?"

"I don't know. I am still in pain."

This phrase could be understood in any number of ways, but I know he will understand what I meant. And he does.

Mycroft looks at me and doesn't say anything.

"But this particular complicated etude is one I would very much like to play," I add and even in the falling dusk I see that my brother is smiling once again.

"Then I shall sort out the sheet music for you."

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_Thank you for reading! Concrit and reviews are always welcome :)_


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